Entre Vichy et De Gaulle
by 42Lia
Summary: 1940- France Fell under Nazi Occupation. The North under German ruling the South a Collaborating Vichy. Across the Chanel, Resistance moves in shadows while the people remain passively quiet. Can you imagine it? The throbbing headache that prevents you from sleeping? Germany can't even begin to imagine. France can't begin to forget. GerFra- Violence and War- Rated M for a reason
1. I- Beauty

Entre Vichy et De Gaulle

**Chapter 1: Define Beauty**

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**AN: So this story will about a dozen chapters long roughly. I've written most of them already so I am certain of concluding this fic. I wanted to try another of my favourite pairings and this time focusing on GerFra! Hope you like it!**

* * *

Ludwig Beildschmidt is my name … well, actually, Germany is what you truly should call me.

I'm young. As a nation, I mean. Well, yes I am. Even if I am now a strappy looking young man of 16, I am much younger than say … my Bruder. My Bruder is called Gilbert Beildschmidt – Prussia – you might have heard of him? Tall annoying albino with an irritable laughter but the brains of an amazing tactician and strategist? Yeah, that's him. The one that raised me … or tried to. He wasn't good at raising children. Occasionally he asked help from Austria – Roderich Edelsteins – but the man can only take care of a piano. He had hosted children in his house before, so I heard, but Hungary – Elisaveta Herderavy – was the one to take care of them. He only cares for music, art and perfecting himself. Oh and both of them think they are right and are as stubborn as a rock sinking in water. To make it brief: they fight. A lot.

And then France comes over.

I like France.

He actually knows how to care for me. He feeds me (I love his food), dresses me (he loves fashion) and takes me out on fun trips (we love those). Occasionally Bruder would come with us. But that was when I was young. Very young. Not fully Germany yet. Not even reaching 10 years old of a human child.

But now, I hardly see France anymore.

Why?

Because there's a war. Haven't you heard? The Franco-Prussian war. And Bruder is actually scared of losing. It's rare for Bruder to feel threatened by another nation but he does when France is involved. I constantly heard Bruder say:

"France is the country of beauty. Be very careful, Ludwig."

I don't understand. How can beauty be dangerous?

…

… …

Ah.

That's how.

* * *

Blues met blues.

The young blonde teen felt himself shrink under the threatening glaring sapphire eyes of the caged man. Behind the cold metal bars of the cell, who would have thought that Ludwig would discover what true beauty was.

And how deadly it looked.

By his side, Prussia was not smirking triumphantly like he usually does when winning a war. He looked pained and irritated. He walked away, red eyes finally leaving the figure that he knew would haunt his nights in both good and bad ways.

"Ludwig! Come!"

The boy didn't move. He couldn't move away.

He didn't understand.

Why was he seeing an angel in a cage? What kind of absurd miracle was this?

"Ludwig. You should hurry." The caged angel sighed heavily. He had a hard time breathing and his voice sounded croaked and dry. So why was it the most beautiful melody to Ludwig's ears?

He nodded and ran off but not without shooting one last glance at the dishevelled man in the dark dirty cell: The most beautiful creature in the world.

But only behind metal bars.


	2. II- Family

**Chapter 2: Define Family**

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**AN: Just to clarify certain points of this story: This is a GermanyxFrance fic but with no violent raping scene between them. There might be some agressive scene but not between these two. The period is mainly during the Nazi Occupation of France and France's role as a collaborator of Germany in that time while having its resistance chased out. It will stretch to modern times but only briefly.**

**Main spoken language between the characters will be German (But I'll keep everything in English as it is easier). Everything in _Italics_ would be French.**

* * *

The Great War they call it. So devastating and caused by sheer stupidity and pride.

How right they are.

How horrible it was.

How painful the result.

France looked down on the young blonde nation chained and locked away. His albino brother was in a different cell, as were Austria and Hungary. Of all the nations … why must he be at such odds with the very nations sharing his blood? The people he should be calling family.

Family?

What a tedious word.

Nations don't have families. France long realised that, the moment he witnessed Rome's blade dig into his mother's throat and her sad green eyes as she smiled at him one last time. Since that day … France had lost all concept of "family".

"The meeting will start soon, Francis." France heard a familiar voice coming from behind him.

He nodded and waited for the one he calls "brother" to walk out. His eyes never left the man crouching behind cold bars. How ironic how their roles are suddenly reversed. It feels like yesterday that he was the one behind bars and staring up at the young nation soon to be his enemy. A nation he should not be at odds with. A nation he should understand better than anyone else.

And yet … blood was spilled.

Ludwig watched with blurred eyes as the personification of England walked out of the cells and left France alone. The beautiful man he had longed for. Was it wrong? Was it wrong for him to wish to take that man and keep him as his own? Was it wrong to wish him his? Was it wrong to feel his heart race at the sheer sight of this beauty?

What a dangerous thing than beauty. It blinds you. It tricks you. And it devours you.

And yet … he welcomed it.

"_Why?"_ France muttered in a soft breath that Ludwig nearly didn't hear.

"_Sarajevo … Austria … Serbia … I can understand but … … but why you too? Why did you raise your sword at me? You knew that I was allied to Russia! You knew I would have to intervene if you were to take part! You knew that this fight was not even ours to begin with! You knew … so why?_" The Frenchman hissed in a quick low whisper such that the words nearly merged together in his sentences, spoken in quick panicked French.

But Ludwig understood perfectly. He spoke French fluently, as did everyone in Europe. After all, French is the tongue of international relations and diplomacy nowadays. He didn't mind. He loved the sound of French. Such beautiful sounds and such a wondrous melody. Fitted for such a beautiful country.

_Because I want to touch you. Even if only through the blade of a sword._

Ludwig let out a small bitter smile corner his lips. He could never speak those words back.

France sighed, seeing that Germany would not be answering him. He turned away, heading back to the meeting room that would decide the fate of his neighbours.

"_You foolish boy … you should know that I'm a vengeful person."_ Francis spoke coldly as he walked away, the weight of his words reminding Germany that he would suffer his loss greatly for having challenged him.

Such a cruel beauty.

* * *

-1940-

"France! Don't be so stubborn! Get on that bloody boat!" Arthur roared as he extended his arm to the Frenchman remaining at shore. All of the other French soldiers and civilians that had gathered here to escape, were already on board and ready to be shipped away to Britain. But France did not move from the sandy beaches of his coasts.

"It's alright, Little Master. I entrust my people to you." He smiled and Arthur knew in that moment that he would not convince his friend to join him.

Cursing, the Englishman yelled orders for departure, by his side, General De Gaulle was watching with horrified eyes as his nation was left behind.

"Alistair! Prepare the submarine! We're leaving!" Arthur hissed in the communication device.

"What about France?"

"… I said we're leaving!" Arthur closed his eyes, holding back the rage and frustration of being so powerless. He couldn't even help his friend from across the channel, and the man he considered as his adoptive brother. Why was France so stubborn?! Didn't he realise how much Britain cared for him! Didn't he realise how much Scotland and England had risked to get him out?

"… Aye, Captain." Was all the reply Scotland gave him.

France watched with a sad smile as his people fled and left him alone to the hands of the Germans. He knew that this had been his last chance to escape. Nobody would come to his help or save him after that. He was alone again.

Russia was too busy fighting Japan to bother with Europe and had signed a treaty of non-aggression with Germany. Spain, Switzerland and others remained neutral. Belgium, Netherlands, and the rest were all being conquered one by one. America couldn't care less about Europe. China was in ruins from fighting Japan. There was no-one left and the last people that could have helped him, he had just pushed away.

"I'm sorry, little brother. But I can't leave them. No matter how much I am hated or how much you resent me … I can't leave my family." France sighed and slowly walked back down south to his Capital, only to wait for the arrival of his dear relatives.

* * *

Ironic.

The Francs. People originally from Germania. And now, he was to fight the very same nations whom he holds such deep blood ties to. The nations that hate him most in the world. And the nations he must save from their own folly. Why else would he have willingly let himself be trapped on his land with the enemy at his doorstep? Why else push away his _Family_ from the Isles, if not to save his _Family_ from the Continent? If not him, who would drag them back to reason? Who would dare to remain by their side? Who would be able to live by monsters day after day … if not another monster? Family … Blood … Such a ridiculous concept.

But if not him, who else would call them such?

"_Allons enfants de la patrie … le jour de gloire est arrivé … con__tre nous, de la tyrannie … l'étendard sanglant est levé … Aux armes citoyens … formez vos bataillons … Marchons … Marchons … Qu'un sang impure … abreuve nos sillons…_"

**[Translation of the National French Anthem: "_Gather Children of the Nation ... The Day of Glory has Come ... Against us Tyranny ... Lift high the Bloodied Flag ... At Arms People ... Form Battalions ... March On ... March On ... Let the impure blood ... feed the soil of our tracks ..."_ Yes, I know it's quite a violent song. You'd be surprised at how violent the words are and that is not the full song yet! It's a song describing the French Revolution, so don't expect the anthem to be fairies and unicorns!]**

France hummed to himself as he heard the loud German cries reach his house and a tall blonde man forcefully enter his house. He smiled a large gleeful and sadistic smirk.

"It's been a while, Frankreich!"

The Frenchman chuckled peacefully, slightly amused by his own situation.

"_Not nearly enough."_ He sighed before a blow to his neck rendered him unconscious.

Ludwig frowned.

Why was he here? He was sure that Britain had sent help to France in an attempt to rescue a few people along with part of the French military. Why had Francis not left with them? He should be aware of what had happened to Poland. So why stay behind? Why not flee?

Prussia walked in, looked down and lifted a surprised eyebrow at the presence of the unconscious man lying on the floor.

"I thought he'd have left."

"I thought so too."

The albino crouched down by the side of the man's beautiful face and tenderly brushed off a few strands of his golden long hair.

"I'm … scared." Gilbert frowned at his own words while Germany silently agreed but did not let his thoughts known to his brother.

Why?

They had conquered him so why did the German feel so small and insignificant in front of France? The man is defenceless and lying at his feet. Why was he scared?

He was afraid …

France in his unconscious was smiling almost knowingly.


	3. III- Home

**Chapter 3: Define Home**

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**AN: Reminder of French History = Between 1940 and 1945, France is split in half. The North is Controlled and managed by Nazi Germany. The South is under the Vichy Regime of Pétain (hate that guy) who collaborated with Germany. Making France one of the most collaborating countries of WW2. The French Resistance was either hiding and sabotaging in the South of France, or in Britain where De Gaulle was given refuge along with a small part of the French army at the time. It's more complicated than that but those are the big lines.**

**Normal: German (in the story)**

**Italics: French**

* * *

France stacked up his files and placed them into a neat folder on which he wrote in bold letters: VICHY. He hated that word. How much he hated it! But he could not … _would not_ feel sorry for himself. He was already too busy to even think about his own fate.

The beautiful blonde man sighed and left his office, folder in hands, and his strict uniform harbouring the Svastika on his shoulder felt awfully heavy on him.

This is 1942.

"Excuse me." France knocked on the door and walked in, without waiting for an answer. Once inside, he sighed again.

"_Crétin. You shouldn't sleep at your desk like that_." He muttered and walked up to the sleeping figure of the infamous, cold-hearted, racist, hated, monster of a nation Germany. Weird. He looked nothing like that kind of monster. In fact, the only reason Francis keeps telling himself such descriptions of the German is to counter-act the massive nazi propaganda polluting his mind. He wasn't an idiot, far from it. He didn't believe that either side was right. Germany is neither a monster, nor a god.

Why was it so hard for others to realise this? Why was he the only one to think this war futile and a waste of time? He didn't want war. His people never wanted war. They still held the vivid memory of the Great War in their minds, fresh as yesterday, and didn't wish to repeat the disaster. And yet, here they are again: fighting, harming, killing, dying. It never ends, does it?

* * *

The German shifted in his sleep and blinked lazy ice-blue eyes open. He noticed the pensive face of Francis staring into thin air, by his side.

By his side.

_His_ side.

He liked the sound of that.

"Franz … What do you want?" He groaned harshly. He didn't know why but he could never address France in any other way than aggressive or cold-passive.

"Oh." Francis snapped out of his thoughts and realised his neighbour had woken up. He handed him the files.

"What you asked me." His voice was monotonous and business-like. No emotions in it.

Ludwig nodded as he looked over the papers, frowning a few times but said nothing, seemingly satisfied enough by the Frenchman's work. For now.

"Gute. Have you …"

"Oui."

"And about …"

"Oui."

"Did you …"

"Oui."

"And …"

"Oui."

Ludwig fell silent, staring at the Frenchman's blank face. No emotions.

"Anything else?" The beautiful nation asked.

"No. Go home. Bruder will be returning from the East. Make us a feast tonight."

"_À vos ordres_." Francis nodded and retired from the German's presence.

"_Home …_" He whispered in his breath once he was out of ear-shot. "_Whose home are you talking about?_"

He looked up at the dull grey sky hovering over his beautiful capital.

"_Home … what does that mean anymore?"_

* * *

Ludwig walked into the house followed closely by his brother Prussia and Austria after they concluded a meeting together with their boss. The smell of delicious cooking reached all of the Germans' senses and they felt hunger take over.

"Frankreich!" The youngest and strongest of the three Germans called loudly and imposingly.

"Hm?" Came the nonchalant reply of his captive. Although, it was doubtful of who was captive of whom.

"Kesese! Smells good, Frenchie! As always!" Prussia laughed as he headed toward the kitchen to take out a beer.

"Hm." France nodded, not paying attention to any of his three visitors as he focused on his cooking. He didn't feel like dealing with his German neighbours right now. Cooking was a good excuse. Especially since those three are so terrible at it! Almost as bad as the British! Seriously! Cooking is not that hard! It's so irritating that they can't even …

"What are you thinking about?" Austria inquired with a lifted eyebrow, a warm teacup in hand and watching him from his seat by the dinner table in the room next door.

Francis blinked. Uh. He had been musing (mentally ranting) for so long that the three irritating pests at his house had already settled themselves at the set table and waiting for him to bring their dinner over. Impatient bastards!

"Nothing." He answered dully and simply went to serve them the starters as he went back to finish the main dish.

In the dining room, Germany watched Roderich and Gilbert argue. Frequently, his eyes would wander on the working figure of their host. His body was slim yet with firm muscles you could guess under his elegant clothes. Ludwig felt his eyes follow the movement of Francis' hips, then he went up eyeing his torso that was visible through the white shirt, then his arms and hands so skilfully moving around the dishes and ingredients. And finally, his eyes landed on the man's face as Francis walked up to them to serve the main dish.

Beautiful. There is no other word to describe this man.

"_Bon appétit_." The Frenchman spoke coolly as he seated himself next to Austria and in front of Germany.

"French food again! Why don't you ever do German food?" Prussia smirked at the blonde.

"Because it's my house, my land, my food and my cooking. If you want to cook tomorrow, feel free to do so." Francis' answer was as calm and composed as ever, his words never speaking the entirety of his thoughts.

All three knew this.

They all knew that Francis never spoke his true thoughts or feelings. Prussia's expression turned irritated and he huffed, turning back to his food. Austria was eyeing France with a silent question pending on his lips but he just could not bring himself to ask it. And France refused to take notice of this. Germany was eating silently, sending glances towards the French nation throughout the meal.

* * *

Like every dinner, it ended with Germany and Prussia sprawled out on the settee with beers, Austria at the piano upstairs, and France in the kitchen pretending he liked being a maid. Ha ha ha. Hilarious situation. In his own home, he is reduced to being a mere servant. That's quite pathetic in itself.

What's worse is that he does this on purpose.

He doesn't like it.

He doesn't like cleaning dishes.

He doesn't like hosting the Germans every day.

He doesn't like feeling their gazes on him.

He doesn't like having to answer to every one of their capricious desires.

But he still does it. Partly because he is under their ruling. And partly because if he didn't, who would? Who would wish to stay in company of those three monsters? Who would accept to lose their home to protect the very ones that stole it? Who would be crazy enough to live with the world's most infamous nations of the current century?

"Francis! Get us another beer!" Gilbert's teasing voice called.

"Get it yourself." Was all the answer Francis gave him.

He heard the albino grumble as he walked into the kitchen. But he didn't walk back to Ludwig's side immediately. Francis could feel Gilbert's heated red gaze on him from behind, and hear the slow gulps of beer he swallowed. Belgium beer.

That reminded the Frenchman that he needed to check up on the neutral nation. She was hiding in his other house in the South, probably safe enough. Corsica is with her so she should be fine. He hoped. Pity her brother got captured. So did Poland and many others. Francis had heard that the Nordics had found refuge in Britain. His little master must be under serious pressure right now …

"Oi. What are you thinking about?"

Ah. Again that question? France could almost smile of amusement at that. Almost.

He turned to the Prussian, his peaceful sapphires boring into the agitated rubies. Prussia was staring ferociously at him, as if he felt threatened or nervous from the gaze the French was sending him. There was no reason to. But it's normal. It's difficult to accept that, after such a fall and occupation, France showed no anger or hatred in his gaze. It was bound to make Gilbert feel uncomfortable and suspicious.

"Nothing."

"Of course!" The albino muttered while rolling his eyes. He always wondered what could possibly go on in the beautiful blonde's head.

"Tomorrow, we're going home to Berlin. You're coming with us." He spat at the calm blonde before storming out of the kitchen.

Home … Berlin?

Berlin is not his home.

But then … _this_ is not his home either. Not anymore.

Where is home then?


	4. IV- Madness

**Chapter 4: Define Madness**

Germany was in his office filing paperwork. Over and over, he read the same words.

_Exterminate. Unclean. Superior. Abnormal. Aryan. Jew. Deportation. Workload. Fate._

Over and over countless times. It's a miracle he hasn't completely turned into a killing machine yet. But then again, a machine could not hold emotions. And no matter how much Ludwig tries to seal his own emotions, he knows that he is unable to completely erase them. He can pretend. He can act. He can almost believe it himself.

Hate.

Indifference.

Disgust.

Pleasure.

Anger.

Glee.

Fury.

He can supress it all. All. Easily. Now, it became as easy as breathing.

He can watch a city blow up in smoke and feel nothing.

He can order a massacre and feel nothing.

He can run his blade through a man's heart and feel nothing.

He can crush the faces that he used to call friends and feel nothing.

A perfect war weapon.

* * *

Prussia looked up at the sky, blowing out some smoke. It was a cool evening in Berlin but far from being as cold as where he used to battle recently. It was nice. The skies are so dark and clouded, not a star or even the moon dared to shine on them, as if ashamed to offer their protection.

The Prussian laughed dryly at his own thoughts.

People are exactly like stars. Tiny. Easily clouded. And so numerous that killing a few hardly changes anything. And just as easily the moon outshines them, Prussia thinks of how easily a few great people outshine everyone else. It is just human nature.

So what is wrong with following the ideals of those brilliant people shining brighter than stars? What is wrong with doing what evolution constantly does by eliminating the weakest link of nature?

"What the hell is wrong?!" Gilbert growl angrily to himself, unable to understand his own frustration.

He looked up at the window where his brother was still working. The light was on. Gilbert blew out another breath of smoke, calming himself down, his mind racing as if high on something. Voices kept ringing in his ears. Louder every day. Accusing. Blaming. Pleading. Whining. Laughing.

If only voices where like stars. If only he could shut them away.

* * *

Austria didn't have problems with voices or emotions. Such primitive behaviour he long got rid of it and devoted himself to a higher spiritual aim: Music and Art. Nothing was higher than Art or the mastery of your own Intellect.

War?

Just another name for peace. If for one, it is war. Somewhere else on the globe, for another, it will be peace. Both constantly coexist with one another. It is impossible to fully grasp peace without first experiencing war. It's because we have war that we desire peace and it is through peace that war is born.

The brunet let his fingers hang suddenly above his piano keys. Absolute silence loomed over the room. A cold silence similar to death.

Lonely.

Roderich pulled his stool back and stood up. He walked to his window and opened it, letting a cool breeze brush his hair. Cold as death.

Not as lonely.

He walked back to his piano and started playing once more.

A requiem.

Over and over again like a broken record.

Emotions and voices? What are they compared to the absolute truth that awaits all? Death will fall. And none shall be spared. So until then, let the world drown deeper in his solo melody.

Lonely.

* * *

France sighed as he looked down at the pile of papers sprawled out on the desk, Ludwig in his chair and muttering incoherently in his sleep, clenching his fists. His eyeballs rolled behind his shut eyelids and Francis frowned darkly at the clear signs.

He gathered the papers. Neat and tidy like Ludwig likes it. He easily pulled the German over his shoulder and carried him to his room and bed. Ludwig is much larger, taller and heavier, yet Francis had no difficulty in dragging him to his room.

Following the blonde, came the albino. Francis found him lying on the grass outside their house. His fists held against his ears and he kept hitting his head against the ground in a soft mantra, whispering pleas to the voices to shut up. Again, fast asleep. Francis gently calmed the agitated man and after soothing his panic, he used the same method to drag Gilbert to his bed as he had done with Ludwig.

Finally he headed to the music room. Roderich was playing the same note over and over again, his purple dead eyes staring blankly into nothingness. Francis stopped his hands and helped guide the Austrian to his room and bed. The man fell asleep as soon as he hit his pillow.

Walking to his own room, the Frenchman peeled off his clothes and stared at his reflection in a mirror. Another scar. Another battle. Another victim. Another aggressor. Another idea. Another dead. He smiled.

For every scar, he felt an emotion.

For every pain, he heard a voice.

For every silence, he spoke a death.

And another.

But he was still sane. In this world prey to madness, Francis had to find a way to remain calm and sane. Because if he let the world crush him, he knew that he would be condemning not only himself but everyone around him too.

And so madness will tease and taunt him, with sweet honey-coated words, but never shall he let himself fall prey to it. His mind may split in half. His friends may turn into enemies. His enemies may love him like friends. His blood may spill or his blade may spill another's.

If Madness came to his door, he'd rather meet Death.

* * *

*Time Skip*

"Ve~! Ciao Germany~! How are you?" The cheery voice called happily as the Italian burst through the door, making Germany groan in annoyance at the unexpected disturbance. The blonde was about to walk up and give the Italian a piece of his mind, especially since he already told off Italy about barging into his home unexpectedly. But before he could do that, France was already greeting the Italian and asking him out. Ludwig froze and lent an ear to the conversation going on outside his office. He was curious because France was lacking his usual exuberance when seeing the Italian. Normally, Francis would welcome a chance to see his little Italian brother but this time he was politely refusing.

"I'm sorry Veneziano. Ludwig has been feeling stressed out and on edge recently. He needs rest."

"Ve! I can make him pasta! Pasta always makes everything better!"

"I'm sure he would appreciate this. Why don't you come by tomorrow for dinner and make him some pasta then?" Francis smiled pleasantly and his tone was as polite as it should be.

Feliciano watched him with frowning confused brown eyes.

"Vee … Francisco … Why are you smiling to me?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Feliciano's frown deepened and he seemed to be getting really disturbed by Francis' response.

"I'm hunting down your southern lands. Germany said me and fratello had permission to hunt Corsica! I really missed him since we gave him to you! I can't wait to find him but he's been hiding really well!"

If the statement worried him, France showed nothing of it. Italy tilted his head, smiling widely as he always does but that smile was cruel and mad. His eyes shaded themselves of red and Francis was now certain that he too was on the edge of the line, almost stepping into a lost world. The Frenchman frowned in concern. He was unable to keep track of Italy since he's already busy with the Germans. But that look in Veneziano's eyes is the one Rome had when he lost himself to folly.

"I see! Good luck then!" The blonde man smiled.

"Good luck?" Feliciano tilted his head, his smile briefly disappearing due to his surprise. Francis smiled politely but his eyes were as cold and sharp as blades when he spoke.

"Yes. Good Luck. You'll need it." The Frenchman spoke with a knowing smile.

"Ve … you really are strange, Francia. I thought you'd be angry because we betrayed you and Germany invaded you. I thought you'd go with Inghilterra. I thought …"

"Feli, thinking is not what you do best. So why don't you run along now and come back tomorrow? I'd love to try your pasta!"

The Italian seemed to blink and revert back to his old self for a moment. He smiled brightly, dismissing all his past doubts and waved his blonde friend as he walked away.

"Si! I'll come by tomorrow and bring lots of pasta! I'll bring fratello too! It'll be fun! Just like old times~!" Red eyes glowed upon those last words, confirming Francis' fears.

The Frenchman shut the door with a sigh.

"Just like old times … uh?" Francis laughed to himself but his voice lacked any emotion.

"What did Italy want?"

The Frenchman jumped at the sudden voice. He looked up to see Germany watching him from his office doorway. The German's expression showed intrigue and curiosity. It was almost comical at how human he looked when he was home and away from preying eyes. Francis forced himself to focus on that face of Germany rather than the heartless cruel monster one he had so often witnessed during torture sessions or executions.

"He wants to cook you pasta to cheer you up. I told him to come by tomorrow evening as you didn't seem prepared for any visits today."

Ludwig nodded. He wasn't sure why but France was being more than just helpful. He was constantly looking after him and his brother, he obeyed all their orders without complaining, and he never once spoke ill word of them. This attitude contradicted everything that he knows of France. Because France hates him. He knows it like he knows the Earth is round: France hates Germany.

Ludwig ignored the icy stab that pricked his chest and he turned away, unable to hold the unwavering blue gaze of his captive. Why was it that, submissive as he is, France looks nothing like a victimised prisoner? Why did his eyes look so strong?

"Thank you." The German muttered in his breath as he locked himself in his office once more.

* * *

Francis waited until he was alone and walked to his room. He faced his mirror once more and let his façade fall. Tears rolled silently down his cheeks and rage boiled in his sapphire eyes. How much longer … how much longer will he have to keep this up? Years? Decades? Centuries? France traced softly the burnt Svatiska in his flesh, courtesy of his neighbours. The Nazi Cross curled around his side on his abdomen, like a snake threatening to bite him at any minute. He pulled out a Swiss-knife and dug it into the accursed marking on his body.

Now, the red of violent madness covered the mark of shame chaining him. The man laughed softly, tears mixing with his blood. He could not even recognise himself in that mirror. He couldn't even tell who he was anymore.

More than Fear, Cruelty or Death. Madness is the most formidable enemy.


	5. V- Cruelty

**Chapter 5: Define Cruelty**

"You are the last person I want to see here, traitor!"

France felt the warm spit land on his cheek but he didn't react to the insult. His dull cold eyes meeting the angry green ones of Poland, lying on his bed in a cell. Francis had convinced Ludwig to allow him to bring doctors and treat the nearly-dying Polish. At first reluctant, Germany eventually gave in but on the condition that if Poland should resist and become a risk, Francis would be the one to claim responsibility. And if necessary, terminate him.

France agreed.

"_How is he, doctor?"_ France asked in his native tongue, ignoring the flow of insults thrown at him by the agitated Pole. The doctor shot Poland a confused look, unable to understand the sudden state of aggressiveness and anger of his patient, nor his speech. He turned to Francis, unable to see his country through the man. Because this Francis was no longer his country. Francis knew it.

"_He will be fine in a month. He will need his bandages attended and his medicine taken at strict times."_ The man explained professionally, no empathy in his voice and with that distant tone that the French people had now all adopted.

Neither supporting nor resisting. Just cold and passive states. As their country.

Francis smiled softly and thanked the man for his time. He turned back to Poland, thoughtful expression on his face. Feliks growled angrily at him.

"What?! You expected me to thank you or something? After you betrayed me? You betrayed all of us! You let those Nazis control you when you could be doing something and resisting!"

Francis ignored the angry rants of the prisoner and walked up to the neighbouring cell where Netherlands was shackled up. Grey eyes looked up tiredly at the blue ones of the man dressed in the official Nazi uniform of a high grade general. Netherlands hated to recognise it but … Francis looked awfully alike Germany. His military history rivals that of Spain or Prussia. His knowledge and pride is as abundant as Austria or England. His current strength and political stress is as extreme as Germany or Italy. And yet …

"You will be attending to Poland's needs. I will give you a list of his treatments. Follow my orders to the letter. You will also be provided the necessary medical supplies daily. Is that clear?" Snappy cold voice struck the air, resonating like a death sentence in the silent cells.

Netherlands nodded.

Turning on his heels the Frenchman was about to walk away when he heard the shackled man call him in a croaked dry voice.

"I have never seen a nation … as cruel as you."

France did not answer or make any sign that he had heard the man. He never stopped walking and soon enough he was out of sight. Holland lay back against the cold wall of his cell. He had seen and fought many wars. He had met many nations. But in this moment, he was certain that no other nation could be as cruel as France.

Cruel as he is Beautiful.

* * *

The general watched in slight fear and morbid disgust. It had only been minutes and yet he was already feeling uneasy. When his superior Herr Beildschmidt had requested this man to lead the interrogation, he never expected much. Upon first impression, this man was far from impressive or threatening. And yet, here he is now, General as he is, shaking in his boots at the sight of man-made-monster.

"_I will not ask this a third time. Where is the resisting group in Paris?"_ the cold voice spoke in a distant tone as if he were only giving a speech.

Equally heartless blue eyes narrowed on the victim he was interrogating. France listened to the man's scream. It never fazed him. He watched him weep. It never reached him. He dug his fingers through a hole he had previously carved in the man's butchered body, earning cries of agony and begs for mercy. It never even tickled his ears.

"_I'm waiting."_ He spoke.

His eyes trailed over the broken body of what used to be a man. Where else had he not carved, burned, torn, or cut yet? He hadn't poked his eyes yet. Yes, why not? Let's see if his vocal cords can still make sounds. He still needs that man to speak after all. Otherwise, what would be the point of all this boring nonsense?

The watching few men present in the interrogation room along with Francis could only stare in utter terror at the madman butchering a human being as if he were arranging flowers. No guilt or resentment. Behind the glass window, watching the entire ordeal, Ludwig felt his stomach turn and a sick feeling of nausea threatening to overtake him. The more he watched, the colder he felt. Francis' heartless expression as he pulls out the eyes of his victim with his bare hands was just watching human savagery at its purest.

"Lud. You're shaking." Gilbert spoke calmly, almost to remind his brother of his position.  
Ludwig nodded, taking a silent breath and forcing his nerves to steel. He could not let himself be disturbed by this. No matter how bloody, violent, savage, or inhuman this scene was. He could not show weakness. Not when his captive was proving to be able of more cruelty than any other.

And on one of his own people.

* * *

Francis washed himself but no matter how much water he used, his being still felt sullied. He knew this already. This isn't the first time. In fact, ever since centuries ago, France has been unable to cleanse himself. It became a habit to hide his dirty being behind fake façades and playful roles. He pretended, day after day.

It was easy. All he had to do was play a role. And everybody bought it. Gullible as they are, everyone easily trusted him and fell for his tricks. Because he looks weak. Because he acts silly. Because he speaks of endless love and romantic happy endings.

Of course.

Francis only speaks such empty words because he himself knows that they are just that: _Empty words_. Fairy tales. Stories. Promises. Words only meant to sooth the hearts of those with no blood on their hands.

He's already damned so those words are forbidden to reach him.

"_Papa …?"_

Francis looked up suddenly and turned off the water of his shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he rushed out into his room to see his two precious angels waiting for him. The two 12 year old twins of long silvery white hair and sapphire blue eyes watched him with worried expressions. The first one jumped off the bed they had been sitting on and rushed to hug him. The second patiently waited for Francis to walk in and shut the door.

In the quiet flat that he rented in Paris for his business trips, Francis didn't expect such a surprise. How did they even walk in here? Did they get the key from Corsica? But there is no way Corsica would let them come all the way to Paris on their own!

"_Papa! I missed you! I want us to go home!"_ Lorraine cried in her father's arms while Alsace quietly joined them in the hug.

Francis smiled sadly as he hugged the only innocence in his life. His daughters were yet the purest thing he still had and he refused to show them the ugliness of the world. Not if he can avoid it. Not yet. Let them enjoy their innocence a bit longer.

"_I missed you both so much … my precious little princesses! Did you come here on your own?"_ France frowned suddenly in concern.

"_You can relax your pretty little head! I wouldn't let two defenceless little girls wonder around occupied Nazi territory on their own!" _Another southern voice spoke suddenly.

France looked up and was relieved to meet the sharp forest green eyes and dark tanned skin of his southern island, dark curls similar to most Mediterranean falling around his roman featured face. Corsica definitely looked Italian or Iberian. But his behaviour was as prideful as France if not more.

"_Take them back. Now." _France ordered coldly, surprising his daughters but Corsica only nodded with a sigh.

"_Don't thank me or anything! I didn't just infiltrate the kids and checked on you because we were worried about your safety or anything! I can't believe Monaco also wanted to come along!" _Sarcasm rang acidly in the room but Francis would have none of it.

"_I told you to cut all ties and to disappear."_ France's voice turned harsher and more commanding.

Corsica looked over the blonde's state. He could see the bruises but nothing major. The blonde had definitely lost weight and looked exhausted but still reasonably well kept physically. In fact, Corsica was concerned because of the lack of injuries on France's body. It only meant that what France was going through was not a physical agony. And physical wounds are always easier to heal than mental ones. Gritting his teeth in frustration at his own powerless state, Corsica could only pull the girls away from their parent, despite their protest. He did not want to imagine what kind of _work_ France was forced to do.

"_I can disappear. I can abandon you. But what good would that make? I know what your orders are but I obey France. And you … are not France anymore."_

"_Andria … please …"_

"_Girls, pack your bags. We're leaving. This flat will soon be infested by Nazis."_

France sighed in relief, nodding thankfully at his friend. Yes, he was being cruel. He knew. He was betraying his friends and siding with his enemies. He was hunting down his own people and protecting those harming him. There is every reason for Andria to hate him right now.

"_Wait! Papa! Come with us! Marianne and Miss Belgium are there too! Please!"_ Alsace shook herself out of Andria's grip, pleading the man's blue eyes with her own identical ones.

Francis smiled but there was no emotion in his smile. Just a gesture. A habit. Alsace saw this. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes and Lorraine quickly pulled her sister in her arms, embracing her while watching their father turn into something they did not recognise.

"_Laure … Anne … If he finds you, he will take you away again. I can't let that happen. So you need to run and hide."_

"_But for how long?"_

"_Until Andria says otherwise."_ Francis spoke opening the door for them and freezing as he heard a familiar voice behind the door but it was too late already.

* * *

"Franz? Are you talking to yourself?" Prussia's voice rang from behind the half-opened door and a frowning red eye peeked at the Frenchman. He had been about to knock when Francis was opening the door.

France watched with wide panicked eyes and ushered in a breath: _"Eagle"_. Instantly Corsica grabbed the girls and covered their mouths, pulling them into a cupboard and shutting it silently while Francis was allowing the Prussian and German in. Germany frowned, looking at his captive suspiciously. Francis was acting strangely tensed for no reason.

"What? What did you just say?" Prussia asked, equally suspicious as he looked around the flat.

"Does it matter?" France reverted back to his old emotionless self, holding back the tremor in his voice and resisting the urge to look in Corsica's direction.

"It does when you speak French!" Prussia spoke darkly as he advanced towards the naked man only covered by a towel at his waist. Gilbert seemed to finally take notice of Francis' state and a teasing smirk grew on his lips.

"Did we interrupt?"

"I just came out of the shower."

"Yeah, I can smell the shampoo in your hair." Gilbert whispered, his nose breathing the scent of Francis' wet hair. He completely forgot about his previous suspicions and was deeply enjoying teasing his prey.

Germany on the other hand, was looking around the flat. He was certain to have heard someone else's voice along with Francis. He and Gilbert had only dropped by to pick up Francis for dinner. For once that they could enjoy a good French restaurant in Paris, they were not going to pass the chance. But now, Ludwig was getting worried.

He was worried that Francis would be hiding something. It annoyed him. He didn't want Francis to hide from him. He wanted to be trusted by the Frenchman. He wanted France to become a part of him. But the resistance in the south was more troublesome than he had thought. Vichy was supposed to support him yet they were so chaotic that it wasn't sure who was with whom or doing what for whom! A complete mess!

A thumping sound and the loud shout and cursing of his brother made Germany rush back to where the other two were. Prussia was glaring at the French, half-pinning him to the bed with a bite mark on his arm as he rubbed it. Francis was glaring equally and baring his teeth like an angry animal. A beast. Furious and enraged. Wild.

"Brother, what are you doing?"

"The little bitch bit me!" Gilbert growled in anger.

"Not that. I asked what _you_ were doing." Ludwig tried to keep his voice even but his anger must have shown through since Gilbert shot him a dark glance, smirking mockingly at his younger brother.

"If you wanted him that much, I'm willing to share. Occasionally."

Ludwig froze at the words. Share? France? As in sharing a property? Is this really how they were treating him? As an object? Frowning the German tried to make sense of his mixed feelings. Of course, France was his property! Why is he even questioning this? Besides, why is he getting angry over one single captive! He had a whole lot of nations to pick and choose from so why did it anger him that Gilbert wished to play with Francis?

It bothered him.  
Really.

He didn't want another man's hands on that chained monster. Only he had the right to touch France. Not even his brother …

Prussia smirked and didn't bother waiting for his brother's answer. He pulled out a knife and edged it closer to France's beautiful face. The Prussian had more than once dreamed of that face. He had longed for it. He had captured it once before and now he was holding it again. The tingling feeling making his heart jump lightly and his body warm up was still there whenever he crossed eyes with Francis. It was odd … how he was both fascinated and terrified by the same being. Francis was so beautiful. So beautiful that it frightened him.

"I want to carve that pretty face of yours. I'll make sure that each time you gaze in a mirror, you'll think of me!"

France didn't react, glaring challengingly but not resisting his touch. It frightened him. Gilbert didn't know if France was submitting to him or resisting him. That guy was just confusing him!

"You're so frustrating!" The red eyed man leaned down to steal Francis' lips, his blade digging into the neck of his victim. Blood trailed down the pale neck of the blonde.

A muffled scream.

But it didn't come from France.

* * *

Both Gilbert and Germany looked up in a panic, glaring in the direction of the foreign sound. Francis' eyes widened and he reached out for the blade in Prussia's hands, throwing Gilbert off him and pointing the knife at his throat but before he could, Gilbert had already grabbed his wrist and they struggled to keep the upper hand. Ludwig had his gun out and fired a warning shot, distracting the two nations wrestling each other. France looked up in horror to see the tip of Ludwig's gun pointed at Andria's temple. The two twins were silently crying and watching in horror as Gilbert pinned Francis down and crushed his bleeding throat with his hands, making breathing difficult and painful for the French.

"_Papa …!"_ Lorraine whispered in a silent breath.

Red eyes glanced at the girls, then back at France. His expression was cold and merciless. He leaned down at the French's ear and smirked his words.

"You brought them home? Thank you, liebling~!"

Gritting his teeth, France let out tears from his beautiful eyes.

"Don't! Let them go! Please!"

"Why ever would I do that? They are my daughters too, you know! And him …" Prussia turned at the Corsican whose face was hardened in resolve.

Gilbert felt ticked off by this man. Always. He hated the way he always hung around France and got all of Francis' attention. He hated that superior look in Andria's eyes. He hated it.

"He's the Resistance. Do you not think we'd want him too?"

"Don't … hurt them …" France muttered. But to Gilbert's displeasure, he was not begging. The harshness in his voice was a threat, a warning, a promise of revenge should he lay a finger on these people.

"Who's to stop me?" He spat angrily at the French, tightening his grip on France's neck, almost breaking it.

"_Leave Papa alone, bastard!"_ Lorraine yelled angrily while Alsace glared through her tears.

Ludwig slapped the girl's face, silencing her, while Gilbert released his grip on France and walked up to his daughters. He smiled at them while they only glared.

"Anna, Laura, it's been so long! You've both grown so much! Vati is very proud of you both! You're so brave too!"

"_Shut up! I hate you!"_ Lorraine spat at Prussia's face.

Wiping off the spit, Gilbert sighed and narrowed a cold and strict gaze on the girl, making her shiver and shrink in fear.

"Laura, didn't Vati tell you a thousand times to not speak French with me?"

"Are you going to … hurt us …?" Alsace asked in quiet voice. Gilbert shifted his serious gaze to her, pondering on his words before he smiled and shot a glance at France who was recovering from his strangulation.

"Hurt you? Why would I do that? Anna, you both are precious to me! I would never hurt you!" Prussia looked back at Corsica and his smirk turned evil.

"Now, I am going to need to hurt _him_ a little. But since he's not important, it doesn't matter."

"Eh! You think I'm going to just chat with you over dinner?" Andria challenged with a mock.

* * *

While Prussia and Andria were challenging each other, Ludwig's eyes never left France. The man was pulling himself back to his feet, wrapping around his fallen towel and walked up to place himself in between Prussia and Corsica. Dull yet raging blue eyes looked up to meet the reds of the Prussian. Gilbert hissed and seemed about to protest but he changed his mind and sighed.

"Fine! Have it your way! You're so stubborn, you know that?" Gilbert hissed and Francis let out a small thanking smile. The Germanic nation smirked at a sudden idea.

"Alright then! But if I don't, you will!"

France's eyes widen and he was about to refuse when Gilbert's pale finger pressed against his lips.

"If you don't … I'll make _them_ do it." The red eyes directed towards the twins and Francis paled. He knew Prussia was not bluffing. In this state of mind, the honourable Prussia was gone and he was now facing a heartless gleeful monster wishing only to break him down slowly and to enjoy it.  
Francis shared a sorrowful gaze with Andria and silently apologising. Corsica knew already that France would go through with this. It didn't matter. Francis was long used to being forced into betrayal and hatred. He accepted it.

It was cruel but he didn't mind.

* * *

Francis honestly didn't mind.

"_This is going to hurt."_ He spoke, lighter in one hand and oil in the other.

Corsica watched him approach, himself tied in the torture chair. Yes, it was cruel. But he accepted it. Because it was still kinder than letting Gilbert or Ludwig torture him.

"_Thanks for the heads up!"_ The Southern island snapped sarcastically before his speech turned into screams of agony.

Behind the window, watching, Italy was grinning happily while eating pasta, Romano's face was serious and emotionless, almost as if it didn't interest him. Gilbert was smirking in triumph and thinking of the next part of his punishment to France for hiding his daughters away. Alsace and Lorraine were forced to watch the ordeal but neither of the girls cried or made a sound, silently bottling up their rage and fear. Ludwig watched. The nausea and the disgusting feeling in his stomach … was gone.

He smiled, pleasure was the only thing he felt.

* * *

Dropped into the cell along with Poland and Netherland, Corsica coughed out blood after he suffered an entire 3 days of nonstop torture. Holland looked up in horror at France's bloodied hand as he pushed down the Corsican's body into the cell.

"Deal with him too. The doctor will be there soon." The cold order of the French snapped and he walked away.

Netherland stared down at the man he thought France would never hurt. Strangely enough Corsica was smiling and whispering in his breath, his hazed green eyes lost in a blur.

"_Healing me to beat me more … Cruel."_ The Island chuckled at his own fate yet strangely enough, he couldn't help but laugh at the situation. After all, he knew well that he would never see tears fall from France's cold blue eyes. Those eyes ... had long been drained.


	6. VI- Pride

**Chapter 6: Define Pride**

They never stood a chance.

Francis knew this right from the moment he was given this job. Since the capturing of Corsica, Germany has been giving him much more work and every time involving the worst horrors humanity could think of. Francis didn't mind. He was used to horrors. His entire life had been painted blue and red such that he could not even remember what white looks like. He didn't mind. So long as he carries on his missions, he can keep an eye on things.

Or terminate them.

The hideout was easy to find. France clicked his tongue in irritation. How did those supposed soldiers manage to miss it? They really take in anyone in that Gestapo organism or what? How could they take so long to find this place? It took the French nation barely a few days to locate his targets.

Flicking his flame near his cigarette, Francis leaned against the wall, breathing in the unhealthy smoke. He'd take his time. No rush. After all, when hunting a prey, you can never rush. That's what Corsica taught him when they were young.

Chuckling dryly, Francis couldn't stop considering the irony of his situation. He was using the knowledge of his own to destroy the only sanity remaining in the Third Reich. To think that it'd take a Frenchman to hunt down Germans … The irony.

"_I guess I should get on with it." _The nation sighed and crushed his fag under his steeled boots.

Moving like a shadow, the blonde was quick and efficient as he slid in between the walls and cracks, gliding through the darkness. This was almost too easy. But then again, these people are not trained warriors like he has been for centuries. These people were not even militaries. These people were just normal civilians. Professors, Students, Thinkers …

These people are but the biggest threat of all.

* * *

Francis paused at the wooden door. He could see light flicker in between the interstices. He listened to the voices. He could hear talks about sending out tracks and flyers. Some ideas of sabotage. And the possibility of contacting France … … How sad. If only they knew that France was the one at the door readying his gun to end their lives.

That was his order.

"_What a rotten job!"_ Francis smiled sadly before his blue eyes grew unnaturally cold and his body moved into the room.

It was quick and merciless.

Francis soon found himself walking amidst the bloody corpses, dead eyes staring at him in terror and panic. The Frenchman lit up another cigarette. He didn't even feel nervous or stressed, his nerves were as calm as if relaxing at the beach. His drenched uniform reddened by the blood did not weight on him. Running a hand through his golden locks, he blew out a cloud of smock, sighing.

Boredom.

"_That went quicker than I thought."_ He muttered to himself, slight disappointment ringing in his voice. He shouldn't have expected anything from civilians. They were not fighters so there was no reason to get excited. But the blonde couldn't help it. When it comes down to it, no matter how much France pretends or hides it, he truly loves violence. For a nation not to enjoy war makes no sense. For people not to feel the need to fight does not exist. And France is just that: A Warring Nation down to its very core.

He's just really good at faking otherwise.

"Guess I should head back and report." As he mumbled to himself, the Frenchman felt his foot land on a stack of papers. Looking down, his cold blue gaze recognised the familiar flyers that had been spreading around Berlin recently. Picking one up, the Frenchman allowed a smirk curl his lips.

They were not fighters. Only people. But they are, without any doubt, the biggest threat to be feared.

Francis knew exactly why Germany was restless recently. Crushing the paper in his hands, France was about to walk out of the room when a voice spoke shakily.

Uh.

A survivor.

The blue eyes narrowed on the injured, half conscious man. He was young. Probably a student. No doubt with big principles and great ideals. A fool really. A very dangerous fool with the world's most fearful weapon: Thoughts.

* * *

"Still alive, are you?" Francis walked up to the boy.

"Why … why are you doing this … you monster …" The boy hissed in between two breaths. He was dying. His wounds were fatal. It's a wonder he's still conscious. Francis watched him exert himself, allowing the child a few words before his final breath.

"You people … you monsters … You're not even human! How dare you call yourselves Germans! Germany is an example of cultural integration! And you just ruined all those decades of struggle with your madness! You are not human!"

Francis sighed. Another prideful fool. They really are everywhere. Fight for your King. Fight for your Faith. Fight for your Country. Really … such foolishness.

"Is that all you wish to say?"

Francis heard the boy spit at his feet. His hazy eyes and staggering breath showed that he was running out of time.

"Now, sleep foolish boy. Be glad that you'll be able to shut those eyes of yours. I cannot. Tomorrow. And the day after. I will still have to wake up. And the horrors will still exist." Francis spoke solemnly before he pulled the trigger.

"You were right about one thing, kid. I am indeed not human. But your mistake is to believe that these abominations are not the work of man."

* * *

Walking out of the room, Francis left behind nothing but corpses and unknown names. A white rose was placed atop every body. It held no mournful meaning, but the pride and principles that these people carried out. These frightening people.

"_Even in your last breath, all you people could do was calling me a monster."_ Francis laughed.

As he walked through the quiet streets of Berlin, a leaflet folded in his pocket, the Frenchman could not stop his soft laughter. Man is truly an amazing being. Capable of the worst and the best. And in both cases, one thing never changes.

"_Silly pride."_ Francis tucked the leaflet deeper in his pockets.

The words written disappearing from sight. He could not let Ludwig see this after all. The poor kid is already troubled enough by other nations' resistance, he probably doesn't want the threat of resistance within his own Reich. Sadly, these people will always exist. Foolish as they are, there will always be people voicing their thoughts. Guns and swords never were a threat.

Thoughts are more dangerous as they are much harder to kill.

* * *

Austria looked up from his paperwork at the Frenchman walking in his office, soaked in blood and wearing an unreadable expression. Pushing his glasses up his nose, Roderich narrowed watchful purple eyes on the man.

"That was quick. You're earlier than planned."

"It was easier than planned." Francis shrugged before dropping the leaflet and a white rose on the Austrian's desk.

The violet eyes stared dully at the gifts before glaring back up at the Frenchman.

"This is?"

"Souvenir."

"Are you mocking me?"

"If I were?"

A tensed silence stretched before Austria sighed and waved the Frenchman away. He did not comment on the satisfied smirk of the blonde, nor the boiling fury in his own being. He simply watched as the warrior bathed in blood walked away. Leaving him with the whiteness of a rose and his hands clean of sins.

"You probably can't even see that colour anymore." Austria wondered as he twirled the rose in between his slender fingers.

He always wondered how a nation so beautiful could see nothing but horrors. He always wondered why his heart pounded every time he witnessed the dishevelled warring state of Francis. He wondered how the blonde's eyes could still so perfectly, like clear waters undisturbed by even a ripple, while his expression morphed into one of a raging demon smiling to his ears, whenever the French nation felt the thrill of battles.

He wondered … when did France ever see colours other than red and blue. When did he forget the snowy white that breaks them apart?

* * *

**AN: The White Rose were the most well-known Resisting Group within Germany. There were many others but most of them unknown. Groups of Students and University Professors began forming these groups, protesting against the Third Reich. Sadly most ended up decimated by the Nazi military.**

**As I refer to the following colours a lot: Blue, White and Red, you guessed I was referring to the French Flag. To clarify my choice of words in this chapter, I shall explain the significance of these colours within the flag. Blue and Red are the traditional colours of Paris. The white was added by Revolutionaries to give the Revolution a National Dimension. The colours were also associated with the old regime prior to the Revolution: Blue-Bourgeoisie, White-Clergy, Red-Nobility. Following the Revolution, Blue represents the Royalty while the Red represents the Revolution. As for White, it is the union between the two. People also like to assimilate the French motto to the flag as followed: Blue-Liberté (Freedom), White-Egalité (Equality), Red-Fraternité (Brotherhood).**

**In this chapter, I am using the colours to describe France's feelings. The bloody red of violence and the memories of the revolution. The Blue of the oppressing royalty and his current situation. Here, you could picture Red and Blue as both sides of Resisting and Collaborating France. And the loss of White, the loss of faith, unity, and humanity. In Francis' case, he can't even see the White anymore. And since this chapter is about pride, all the more reason to base this on the national colours.**

**It is also because of that play with the colours that I chose to use the White Rose as the Resisting group in this chapter.**

**So, yeah … hope that helps explaining my logic.**


	7. VII- Love

**Chapter 7: Define Love**

France clasped his hand against his mouth, muffling his cry. The pale albino above him chuckled and gently pulled his hand away, pecking the delicious lips of his victim.

"I told you I want to hear your voice~!"

Francis glared at the man, hissing when Gilbert's teeth grazed down his collar bone before biting down till blood spilled out.

"You have such a lovely voice! I want to hear you moan and beg all night long~!"

The cold pale hands reached down to Francis' hips, pulling the clothing off and wrapping his fingers around the Frenchman's thighs, stroking gently and feeling the body he once possessed but lost. He could now reclaim him again. And Francis felt exactly as he did before. He tasted as delicious as in the past. And he looked as perfect as in Gilbert's dreams and fantasies. Honestly … it's a wonder he managed to hold back his urges until now.

"I want you to call my name like you used to." Gilbert purred in his partner's ear before nipping at the said ear, making Francis shiver and squirm. He hated how sensitive his ears were.

"You're still as stubborn as before." Prussia pulled away and looked down at the man under him. France was naked apart from his open shirt which Gilbert didn't bother with.

The Prussian pulled off his own shirt, revealing a toned lustful body with ripple muscles and scars to prove his worth in battle. He enjoyed the dull, unimpressed expression of the French. Francis could hardly say that he had never seen Gilbert naked before so there really was nothing to amaze him.

"Eh! You can be so uncute sometimes!" Gilbert laughed out. "Kesese! Doesn't matter! I'd rather have you like that than any other way! It'd be boring if I could sweep you away easily!"

"_Like you could sweep away anyone!"_ Francis averted his gaze, hissing angrily. He just wanted this over and the Prussian to leave him alone.

"Aw! You're still mad at me? Look, you know it was your own decision! You asked me not to punish that pesky little island. And because it's you, I didn't. But someone had to~!"

"I know." Francis hissed in between his gritted teeth, trying to shut away the memory of his own torturing of Andria. He hated Prussia. But he hated himself more.

Pulling Francis' face back to looking at him by holding his chin in between his pale fingers, Gilbert looked into Francis' vivid blue eyes. They were different from all the blues he had ever seen. He had never seen eyes of blue so deep that you felt like drowning in them. Deep and in so many layers that you never know what the owner of those eyes is actually thinking. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then Francis had an infinite number of shutters on his windows.

"I really wished you hadn't hidden our daughters from me. Are you afraid that I'd corrupt them and turn them into monsters like me?" Gilbert laughed but in all honesty, the words he spoke hurt him more than he hoped to hurt Francis.

He knew what people thought of him and his brother. Hell even Austria was now treated differently. Monsters. They were feared like monsters. Were they really monsters? They're only following the flow of their people and governments! Right? Prussia didn't mind the look of fear and disgust in his victim's eyes. He didn't mind if the world hated him.

But he did mind if France started to give him that same look of fear and disgust.

"No." Francis spoke calmly.

Gilbert looked down at him in surprise.

"What?"

"It's not you that I'm afraid they'll get corrupted from. It's me." Francis smiled a dead smile.

Gilbert didn't know why but his heart beat faster and he felt anxious to hug the other man. Francis looked so defenceless it frightened him. Because at the same time, he knew that France was never defenceless.

"I'm the real monster. You made them watch me. You made them see me. All three days, they saw me become a monster." Francis started whispering, tears rolling out of his eyes.

Before the Frenchman could keep up his rant, Gilbert silenced him with a kiss. Francis didn't resist nor did he enjoy it. It tasted bland. In the past, it used to taste sweet. Red eyes met the deep blue hues. Breaking apart, Gilbert heaved himself up and closer to Francis, running his lips down the Frenchman's chest.

"They would have seen eventually. You can't shield them forever and besides …" Prussia paused and unzipped his trousers. His red eyes glowed of desire as he looked fondly at the blonde.

"You're no monster." He smiled at his words and for a moment, Francis almost believed him. Almost. But a monster telling another monster that they are not such? It's only a sweet delusion of a madman.

"But I am." Gilbert pressed himself down, his member rubbing against Francis.

The Frenchman bit his lip in an attempt to stop himself from moaning. Gilbert hissed and growled at the gesture.

"I told you to stop that! I want to hear you!"

He forced his pale fingers into the blonde's mouth, making Francis gag and unable to stop his moans. Dazed in lust, Francis found himself unable to stop the grinning demon from pulling his fingers out of his mouth, slick in saliva, and to move down to grope his buttocks. Gilbert hummed at the little noises he was forcing out of France. He slipped a first finger in, followed soon by a second and started to scissor under the gasps and hisses of the blonde. At the third finger, Francis pulled Gilbert into a raw angry kiss, biting the Prussian's lips.

"_Hurry up, bastard!"_ he hissed in a shortened breath.

"You know I hate it when you speak French." Prussia smirked as he adjusted his position. "It makes you sound so sexy that I can't control myself. A real turn on."

Francis screamed as he felt Gilbert ram into him suddenly without any warning. The Prussian kissed him while giving him time to adjust. He was careful of his lover. Of course, France was their captive and property but Gilbert would never wish to use this as an excuse to abuse him. He didn't just want France's body. He wanted his heart and soul. He wanted the French nation to fall as hard as he had fallen for the blonde Latin.

"_F-Faster … Gil …"_ Francis whispered softly.

Gilbert smiled as he heard Francis call him by his human name. He truly wished this moment could never end. As they both came, Gilbert pulled out of Francis and the French went limp in his arms. He laid him on the bed and wrapped his pale arms around the slender frame of the blonde. Francis' blue eyes were hazy and about to pass out. But before he did, he gently pecked Gilbert's lips and smiled softly. Gilbert felt his heart race and his face warm up. He spent the next hours simply staring at the sleeping man's beautiful face, wondering how he's going to explain to Francis tomorrow. It's obvious Francis won't believe him if he said that his feelings are sincere. France never trusts people when it comes to love.

That won't change.

* * *

Francis charged out of his office angrily, glaring at everyone in his foul mood. He couldn't believe he actually let Prussia play around with his feelings last night! Hell, the guy was impossible! He made him torture Corsica in front of his daughters and then he has the balls to confess?! That's too easy! Even the lowest of devils wouldn't come up with something so low!

In his blinded anger, Francis charged into Ludwig's office and slammed the papers on the German's desk under the stern and perplexed icy eyes of said German.

"What is this?" Ludwig asked firmly but was surprisingly answered with a raging France.

"Your files! You asked me to fill them in! You asked me the list of all the names of the next deports! You asked the updates on the prisoners! You asked me and there it is! Happy?!"

Blinking in stupor Ludwig could barely react in time to stop Francis from leaving by grabbing his arm.

"Hold on! What's wrong with you?"

"Why does it matter to you? I'm nothing! Just another pawn for you to play with!" Francis hissed in anger but his words were not addressed to Ludwig. And the German could see that. It made him envious of the person occupying France's mind.

"France … you're not a pawn."  
Francis laughed dryly and finally deigned looking straight at Ludwig.

"Oh really? Then pray tell! What am I? Because you and your brother are doing a pretty damn good job at making me feel like nothing but a pawn! A toy to throw once it breaks! I bet you can't wait to see me break down, right?"

Ludwig frowned in anger and slammed the Frenchman against his desk, rage and madness suddenly clouding his rationality. France realised he might have pushed his words too far and his eyes widened in panic at the thought of letting Ludwig drown in his own folly. But he didn't. The German still had a grasp on himself. Clenching France's shoulders, shaking nervously, the taller man leaned down and cupped the other man's face into a deep kiss.

France was so shocked that he couldn't move.

Prussia was one thing. Austria, possibly. But he didn't think Ludwig would also … Yeah, well, people did like to call him a slut. Guess that made them correct. France hated himself for being in this situation. He pushed back the German and spat to the ground angrily, glaring blue daggers at Ludwig.

"What are you trying to do? You think I'm some cheap slut for your convenience? News Flash: I'm not! Don't even think about it!"

Ludwig cringed at the hatred and acid in those words. He hadn't meant it like that. He really didn't want Francis to misunderstand.

"No … that's not what I …"

"Oh? So what? You're going to say that you're in love with me like your lying brother?!" Francis yelled in frustration. This entire ordeal was finally breaking his nerves. He could take everything but not this. He refused to be played emotionally.

Ludwig's eyes widen and his words grew cold.

"My brother …?"

"What?" Francis spat angrily as he tried to calm himself down but before he knew it, he was back to being pinned on the desk, his wrists nearly breaking under the pressure of the larger man's grip on him. Ludwig's expression was one of pure rage and madness that made Francis shiver.

"What did my brother do to you?" The German whispered and his voice sounded like Death itself.

"… Ludwig …"

"Answer me. So that I can kill him." Ludwig's eyes glowed purple and Francis panicked. The French nation knew exactly what kind of state Ludwig was in but he couldn't understand what had triggered it … wait … was Ludwig actually … jealous? Is that the trigger? Francis bit his lip. He needed to find a way to drag Ludwig back to sanity. If he couldn't, what would have been the point of remaining by the side of this monster?

"Ludwig … do you hate your brother?"

The man silenced at the question, his eyes slowly reverting to their usual blues of ice. He seemed hesitant and unsure of his answer, as he didn't know himself. Francis gently tried to free himself from his grip but Ludwig wouldn't budge. Eventually, the German answered in a frustrated and almost childish tone, his voice trembling.

"My brother … is the perfect warrior! He's strong, reliable, respected and feared! He's always at the top and untouchable! He's an amazing brother! He taught me how to hunt and kill. How to be a perfect soldier like him! He's a firm mentor and he always treats me fairly as anyone else."

Francis heard the obvious pride in Ludwig's voice but also the hidden bitterness behind it. Of course, Gilbert did a great job at training Ludwig for the battlefield but he neglected the human aspect of the child. Somehow, this didn't really surprise the Frenchman. Despite this, it is obvious how much Ludwig loved and cared for his brother, while feeling that rivalry and resentment towards him.

A normal brother relationship.

"And he has you." Ludwig muttered darkly and the room seemed to freeze several degrees below zero. Francis blinked, not sure that he had heard properly.

"What? What did you say?"

Ludwig looked up into the confused sapphires, his own ice blue eyes begging him to trust and believe his words, desperate for his understanding. This was the first time that Ludwig opened up this much to the French nation. France was at loss.  
"He's great and formidable. I know why you chose him. I know why he chose you. And I understand that … But can't you … please … reconsider?"

"…" Francis could not begin to answer. He was being confessed to twice in the same day? This is too weird! Especially from Ludwig! Wasn't he interested in Feliciano?

"I love my brother." Ludwig nodded to himself, finally agreeing on his feelings. "But I love you more. I didn't mean to scare you or offend you earlier … I was angry. I don't like hearing of other men or women touching you! I can bear the thought of my brother touching you even less!" Ludwig started to shake nervously again, as if breaking down in his emotions. The feeling of losing to his brother again was irritating. But the feeling of losing France to his brother … was unbearable.

"L-Ludwig … I'm not …"

Francis felt the larger man bring him into a crushing hug, and Ludwig's face nestled in his golden long locks, breathing in his scent of lilies. The French nation was shell-shocked and couldn't find the words to appease the nervous breakdown of the German.

"I can't stand it … whenever you're involved, I feel like I'm losing my mind! I get angry and violent! But when you're there, I'm at peace. I keep longing you when you're far but when you're close, I'm scared to touch you!"

Francis felt a heavy weight land in his stomach at the idea that he might be the cause to Germany's madness trip. If that is true … then how can he solve this?

"I won't let you go again … I won't let anyone take you away again … I … I can't lose you!"

Francis felt tears roll down his neck, peppered in soft kisses. He didn't need to see to guess Ludwig's teary expression. The large hands holding him slowly unleashed him but only to roam gently over his body, searching and seeking. Ludwig's lips kissed up his jawline and he nibbled at Francis' ear. Dammit! Those two really are brothers for doing the exact same trick on him! Francis shuddered at the feeling, making Ludwig stare in surprise then grin in delight, excited by the reaction he had provoked. He leaned down for a full-lips kiss, his large hands already latched around Francis' waist.

The Frenchman looked away, breaking the connection.

Ludwig looked heartbroken and slowly let go of the blonde.

"I see."

"Ludwig … let me help you … I can't …"

"No. It's fine." Ludwig answered with a smile that frightened Francis. He had undoubtedly destroyed everything he had worked on preventing. Purple started to grow in the German's blues.

"You're still not trusting me. You still have other people you worry for. I understand."

"Ludwig, please, don't do anything stupid …"

"It's alright. I'll just crush everything and everyone. That way …" He leaned back in and forcefully grabbed Francis' chin in his thick fingers, his other hand gripping the Frenchman's waist.

"… You will only have me." He smirked, blue eyes glowing mad purple. "I'll start with Britain since I know how close you are to them. By now, it's a matter of time before they give up. Then Russia. Then I'll break Italy. Then America. Then Japan. Then China. And then …"

"Please don't … you'll kill yourself …"

Ludwig stared in shock at the man before laughing madly.

"I can't die. Not before you become mine."

* * *

Left alone in Ludwig's office, France felt his legs give up under him and he collapsed down to his knees. The situation was growing out of control. He can't do this anymore. He needs to stop this madness before there is nothing left of Germany and the others. France already knew for a fact that Austria was having a great time torturing Hungary right now. The same woman he used to love and cherish. How can someone act in such devastating and harmful impulses towards the very person they love? How can Francis even claim to understand love when the only love he was ever given was one of violence and torture … time after time.

The blonde started shaking, memories of his past flowing back. Rome. Vikings. Spain. Austria. Prussia. And now Germany. Francis can't remember ever having a willing choice in those relationships. The only one he truly did have a mutual understanding and respect with shared feelings was with his alliance with Scotland. Of course, England was a different story. More family than actual love. Francis chuckled as he realised his words.

Family and Love. The two things that confuse him the most. And he needed to call them. He needed Family. And he needed Love. Or he might lose both before getting even a chance to understand them. Trapped as he is in between two worlds, confused in madness, buried in love, and crumbling under duty.

In between his broken land, his split people, his shared thoughts, Francis no longer could stand the throbbing headache that has been hammering his mind ever since Germany knocked on his door in Paris, claiming him occupied. The voices from across the seas … the orders from the North … the Chaos from the South … Francis no longer had the strength to endure this. And now … he no longer has a reason to. Enduring is over. Now, he needs to end this war.

Madness is terrifying. But Love is even worse.


	8. VIII- Betrayal

**Chapter 8: Define Betrayal**

Germany stared blankly at the clear sky. How ironic that it would be such a beautiful weather on such a devastating day. Lying in the midst of corpses of both foes and friends, the young nation could only wonder on what had caused his failure. The most obvious answer came to his mind and sight in the figure of a blonde man.

"Surrender." The English word rang like a sentence in the thick tension of the air.

Further back, Prussia was being dealt with by Russia and America. Saxony and Bavaria were also being managed by the Britons and kept under lock. Austria was held down by Hungary who looked heartbroken and vengeful at the same time. The redhead holding down Saxony looked up and grinned at the approaching blonde with blue eyes followed by two brunets with their heads low. Ludwig held his breath as the long haired blonde walked up to the other blonde who was previously submitting Ludwig. Sapphires and Emeralds shared a glance before they looked down on the beaten body of a once terrifying power.

"_It's over."_ France spoke in a cold voice, no regret or apology in his tone. Ludwig knew this already but his heart still ached. It ached more than when he heard of Italy's betrayal. It ached more than when he heard of Japan's truce with Russia. It ached more … so much more …

Because he already knew the moment he captured France, that he would eventually be betrayed.

* * *

"_It's over."_

The French words rang in his head and took days to process as if his mind feared to acknowledge reality. The deep layers of sapphire blues kept haunting Germany's mind day and night as he was locked up and awaited his trial and the final verdict of his loss. He had heard of the end of the war in Asia due to America's rash action of landing two atomic bombs and killing more civilians than soldiers. Germany remembers hearing France complain and argue about the violence and the stupidity of such an action.

It was ironic.

France is not a peaceful nation. France is a nation soaked blood. Sometimes his own blood. A warring nation as fierce as Prussia or England. A nation so violent that he thinks of himself as a monster.

That's probably why, France is also a nation that respects life.

Ironic.

* * *

The broken ice blues looked up as he heard the door of his cell open. He was expecting a guard but to his surprise he was met with the one person he did not want to see. Mixed feelings shook his heart and Ludwig forced himself not to speak a word to the man. He hated him and loved him. He resented him and admired him. He feared him and desired him.

France wore a cold expressionless face as he approached his defeated enemy. He had requested to personally inform Ludwig and Gilbert of the final verdict. England had offered to break the news to them but France, feeling deeply responsible for this, wanted to be the one to tell them. To tell them how he ripped Prussia from his rights to existing and how he broke Germany down to being nothing but shared land between victors.

He was cruel but France never regretted his decision.

"I already told Prussia … whom should no longer be called such."

Germany frowned, confused by the man's words.

"From now on, you are to come under the name of West Germany and your Brother shall be East Germany. You will be parted. Prussia has been dismantled upon my request. Germany has been broken apart into four, again upon my request. Your land bordering mine is under my jurisdiction now. The other two parts of West will belong respectively to America and Britain. East will be under Russia's control. Your military will be stripped and reduced to minimum defence. Your rights as a free nation are null. Specific details are still underway."

Germany blinked.

No.

West Germany blinked.

West …?

"You should be feeling it any time now." France spoke once more but this time, his voice was softer and kinder.

However, this didn't matter much to Ludwig as he was suddenly struck by agonising pain. He collapsed, curling and twisting his body. He felt like he was being torn apart while at the same time, something was trying to connect to him. He heard a voice screaming in his head but it wasn't his voice. He knew exactly whose voice this was. The same way he heard two hearts beating when there was only one before.

"When you've calmed down, I'll ask Veneziano to come and see you. He'll explain the changes in your body." Francis stood and walked away to lean against a wall as he watched the agonising German screaming his lungs out.

Ludwig felt a loud pounding ring in his head, his heart was jumping against his ribcage and his breath was cut short. He couldn't breathe. His body felt both warm and cold at the same time. His limbs felt numb yet torn to pieces. His entire being was undergoing stress and agony beyond human comprehension. And all he could do was glare hateful icy blue eyes at the man watching him coldly.

Betrayal hurts.

More than any other pain.

More than what Germany was currently undergoing.

The agony in his heart was much more painful. And through his glare, he knew France understood this. But the Frenchman's eyes were colder than his own and the cruel beauty showed no remorse.

He just watched.

* * *

Francis sighed as he approached the unconscious body of the German. He knew how painful this had been for Ludwig. Having his nation ripped apart and sharing a new link with his brother that previously didn't exist. But that was the only way Francis could both destroy Prussia yet keep Gilbert. So he did what had to be done. Even if that meant irremediable hatred from his neighbours.

It's not as if he didn't hate them himself too.

"I'm not sorry." The man whispered, almost feeling like he should explain himself.

He stood up and walked away to fetch Feliciano and ask him to explain to Ludwig his new status as a Half-Nation.

He was not sorry.

* * *

**AN: And that is the end of the War! Next are going to be a few chapters jumping over a few time periods quite fast. It'll focus on the relationship between France and Germany following the war and into modern times.**


	9. IX- Hate

**Chapter 9: Define Hate**

He must be joking.

Germany may be weak but he is no fool! How can this man just stand there in front of him and plainly speak such words?

He must be joking.

"I'm not joking." Francis sighed as he pulled out of the oven a Quiche Lorraine freshly baked and left it on the counter to cool down, judging his cooking result with a critical eye that only France can have when staring at his own cooking. For in anybody else's eyes, anything France cooks would look and taste godly. And yet the French was never satisfied with himself. And not just in cooking.

"_Papa! Papa! Laure is going out with that human again!"_ Alsace barged in the kitchen, plainly ignoring Germany's presence as she always does.

The German had gotten used to living with Francis and his daughters. He especially got used to the cold ignoring attitude of Alsace and Lorraine. Monaco barely acknowledged his existence but never spoke a word to him and to be fair, she spent more time living down south with Corsica than in Paris with France and the twins. She visited often but never stayed.

The first time Germany was told he would be living with France, had been on demand of France himself. England had been firmly against it but eventually France got his wish. At that time, Germany felt he hadn't hated anyone as he hated France. But he understood. France was cruel. It was only natural that he would want to force Germany to experience the same occupation he had to deal with. Yet the hate still burned.

Every time Francis spoke, his tone was polite and distant, exactly the same as during his Vichy regime. And yet, when he was addressing his daughters, Germany could hear how warm and caring Francis' voice would sound. Pride leaking from him in every word, as it did when he betrayed Germany and rebelled under De Gaulle. The same person. The same nation.

Francis looked up and smiled softly, as he always does, to the white-haired 16 year old girl. Strangely enough, since their experience in Nazi occupation and the ending of the war, the twins had grown both mentally and physically. As if the trauma had been turned into maturity. The growing of Nations is indeed a mysterious thing.

"_Is it the baker's son? He's cute!"_

"_But he's a human! She can't go around falling in love with humans!"_

"_I did. It hurts but I never regretted it."_ Francis smiled fondly at the memory of a certain brave female he both admired and loved, even to this day. And he let her burn.*

Germany noticed how suddenly France's eyes darkened briefly in guilt and he shook the memory away. Ludwig had no idea who Francis had loved but it irritated him.

Because he loved Francis.

And hates him just as much.

"_Still a dumb idea!"_ Anne growled and took notice of the quiche. She grinned greedily and looked up at her Papa with puppy eyes. Francis gave her a firm look and placed a kitchen towel to cover the quiche.

"_Don't spoil your appetite before dinner. Why don't you go and get your sister. I need to talk with Ludwig for a bit."_

For the first time, Alsace deign looking at her German relative. Her blue eyes were dull and as if she were looking at an ugly bug. She nodded and silently left, slamming the door in the process.

"_Well, there's progress. Now she actually deigns looking at you!" _Francis chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood but Ludwig, after spending so many years living with France, could clearly hear the lie behind his words.

"_I don't expect her to like me. Or to forgive me."_ Ludwig mumbled in a thick German accent that distorted the French words. He was unsure whether he wanted Francis to hear him or not. The Frenchman didn't reply, leaving to Ludwig's guessing whether he had been heard or not.

* * *

"Pass me the tomatoes and cucumbers." Francis switched back to German, easing Ludwig's struggle.

Germany frowned. Again, he didn't understand why France was doing this. It wasn't much. But every little detail … France would switch to German whenever he felt Ludwig struggled to follow in his native tongue. France would cook German dishes every so often and probably not just to adapt to Alsace and Lorraine's culinary variety. No matter how much they tried to deny it, they had a strong German influence. And France accepted it with such ease. France would also update Ludwig on every little news on his brother. France never failed to bring Ludwig with him to world conferences even though he had no reason to. France would let Ludwig help out with the house chores but never forced them on him. France always bought specifically German beer instead of the usual Belgium beer he used to drink. France bought a pair of puppies for the girls last Christmas … and also bought a third one for Ludwig. Germany didn't remember ever telling the French that he loved dogs.

It was frustrating. It wasn't much but in small gestures, Ludwig could notice the touches of kindness in France's behaviour. He spoke coldly and harshly, his tone was unforgiving, he rarely allowed any physical contact between them, and he often glares hatefully at his German neighbour. France openly showed no compassion to Germany. But when Ludwig allowed himself to settle down, he noticed the small details in France's behaviour.

Details he never noticed when occupying him.

Details hardly anybody notices about France.

Like the way France always talks about love and romance, yet his eyes are almost dead when he speaks those words. France always brags about his skills like his fashion sense or his cooking, yet when alone, he is constantly criticising himself and never compliments his own work. France jokes about not wanting to work and just relax and have a siesta with Spain or the Italies, yet Germany more than once found France taking his duties very seriously and working sleepless nights at his office. France argues and criticises England, yet when the Englishman isn't around, France talks fondly of his "little brother". France often states he doesn't care about Prussia but he always checks up on him and constantly asks Russia about the albino.

It's nothing but details. And Germany never thought he would get to discover so many details about France. Details that only made him fall more for the Frenchman.

And hate him just as much.

* * *

"Ok, the salad is done." Francis muttered to himself, not realising that he hadn't switched back to French and was still speaking German. As he pulled out of a cupboard some plates and began setting the table, Germany joined and helped him out without needing to be asked.

"I wasn't joking, you know." France suddenly spoke up.

Ludwig froze but quickly returned to setting some glasses on the table.

"I think if we combined our industries, we could benefit from each other. It's just a business suggestion. You don't have to take it so seriously." Francis continued, his face emotionless, hate in his eyes.

How can he speak of a relationship between them, while his eyes show nothing but hatred?

"I … I would be honoured." Ludwig heard a quiet hiss in his voice. Why? He really was excited at the idea of working with France and getting to know more of the Frenchman. So why did he hiss? Why did hate tone his voice?

"Then it's settled. I'll let you know of the details after dinner." France's voice was cold and distant as always and when he briefly crossed eyes with his new German partner, both blues showed nothing but fervent hatred.

* * *

He must be joking.

Francis frowned, unsure whether to feel glad or scared by what he was hearing. Shock is what mainly strikes him to silence.

He must be joking.

"I … I'm sorry." Ludwig mumbled, his face bright red and his icy blue eyes looking out the window nervously.

As they were both seated in a café in Paris, enjoying one of their rare relaxing days, the two blonde nations had found themselves unable to talk about anything but work. Conversations between them were still at blank point and the tension was ever so present. Neither knew what to talk about. Neither knew how to interact with the other. Neither knew how to even approach a topic while avoiding every taboo between them.

Work is the only conversation.

So why on god's earth did the muscle-brain think it would be a good idea to blurt out a proposal?! France stiffened, his heart did not beat faster and his face paled instead of blushing. Anyone else would have felt at least some sort of flattery at being confessed to. But in Francis' eyes, it all turned into a lie. And he would just brush it off.

"You should be." Francis spoke acidly, noticing how Ludwig's own body tensed at his harsh words. It's no different than usual. Francis always talks to him like that. In fact, it's a wonder why the German even bothered falling for him. It made no sense. All Francis had shown Ludwig was cold hatred. They are business partners. Nothing more.

"… _I know you hate me."_ Ludwig spoke and Francis was surprised by the sudden switch to French. They had taken a habit of speaking German when alone.

"_It's no big secret."_ Francis snapped back sarcastically, rolling his eyes before taking a sip of his coffee. Ludwig nodded but strangely enough, a sad smile curled his lips.

"_I know. I know that there would never be any reason for you to change your opinion of me. In fact, just being in a partnership with you is more than I could ask for after …"_

Oh god … did he really want to talk about all that? Francis waited, brooding darkly as he glared at the German.

"_I'm not lying though. And I wasn't back then either."_ Ludwig finally looked back into the sapphires glaring at him.

"_I do love you. I loved you then too. I've hated you as well but I never stopped loving you."_

Francis put down his half empty cup and dropped some coins on the table as a tip before he walked out of the café, leaving Germany without even a word.

"'But I hate you' … right?" Ludwig smiled to himself as he could guess the words behind Francis' silence. It's no surprise really. He didn't expect anything.

But the tears still fell.

* * *

***- Reference to Jeanne d'Arc**


	10. X- Truth

Chapter 9: Define Truth

**2012-**

"Bruder! I'm leaving! Please, don't go and pester Austria! We still have paperwork to discuss and I don't want to have to drag you all the way from Hungary's death grip!"

Prussia snarled a vague answer that Ludwig did not bother acknowledging. He knew Prussia to be serious when it came to work so things should be fine. Except …

"Are you meeting in Berlin? Can I come?" The albino ran down the stairs and into the hallway where his younger brother was putting on a coat. Ludwig shook his head.

"Paris. I'm taking the train and staying the weekend there. I'll be back on Monday morning."

"Oh. I see. Give him my regards." Prussia mumbled, pretending not to care but Ludwig could tell from the albino's sour tone that he was disappointed.

It's no big secret to the world: France and Germany are in a solid union that spread out to the whole of Europe and unified a continent that until then was constantly punctuated by wars and conflicts. These two nations, enemies, with a hate for each other that surpassed history, found it in them to forgive and work together. They were an inspiration to the world.

Now, the secret that only few people are aware of … well, it's not a secret but simply a small fact that you wouldn't notice if you weren't told of it: France hates Germany.

"The girls will be there. Should I pass on a message? Last time didn't go so well …" Ludwig asked and watched as Gilbert tensed up, his red eyes glaring at the wall, lost in his thoughts.

Last time, Gilbert and Francis had attempted a family outing with the twins to the beach in the south of France. Gilbert had been planning to hopefully reconnect with the Frenchman. On most aspects of life, Francis had long forgiven him and their friendship was rekindled. The same way France was friendly with Germany equally. There was no more animosity. But just like before … there was no love either and trust was lost in History, needing to be slowly rebuilt stone by stone.

Now, if Francis was friendly and welcoming to his old friend, Alsace and Lorraine were deeply resentful of their Prussian father and spent the whole time glaring at him. They only agreed to this outing and the other occasional visits of Prussia, as an apology for tearing down his nation and letting him be imprisoned by Russia. They wouldn't admit it, but the twin French regions had been extremely worried and sad when East Germany was ruled over by the USSR. France told Prussia about this but when Prussia attempted to ask the twins himself … well … it didn't go so well.

"No. Just … Tell them I love them and I miss them."

"I will." The blonde nodded and was about to walk out when he heard his Eastern Counter-Part mutter hurriedly.

"Him too."

There was a brief moment in which Ludwig's hand froze on the handle. Gilbert noticed as he always does. It couldn't be helped. Because as clear as France hates Germany, Germany loves France. Both sides of Germany, whether East or West.

Without a word, West Germany shut his front door and walked to his car, driving off to the train station. He was excited, as he always is. Of course, it will only be official business and nothing more but, like every time, Ludwig can hardly hold his excitement of seeing the one person that made his life worth living.

* * *

"You're late! I thought Germans are supposed to always be on time!" Francis smirked amusedly.

"It's a misconception. It's like saying all the French are too proud and complain all the time. Besides, I did call to let you know …"

"_Oh right! Sorry Papa! I forgot to tell you West would be late!" _Alsace's voice piped from inside the house.

France rolled his eyes, already understanding that his daughter had purposefully omitted to tell him about Ludwig's call. Ludwig said nothing, used to it.

"_Should have known …"_ The Frenchman muttered before moving aside to let his guest in his house. "Anyway, come in! And about that comment concerning pride and complaining all the time … Not as much a misconception as you'd think." France smirked maliciously as he led his partner into his office.

Passing by the living room, Ludwig spotted Alsace and Lorraine chatting energetically in rapid French. After years of practice, the German could now grasp every subtlety of the romantic language. But polite as he was, Ludwig did not pry on the girls' conversation. They were both hunched over a laptop and seemed actively engaged with another person via Skype.

Ludwig followed Francis quietly, looking down his host and noticing every detail since the last time he saw his French partner. He looked healthy and as gorgeous as ever. Ludwig always wondered how Francis could stay so fit without having to work out as much as Ludwig does while eating such rich and delicious food all the time. When he asked England, the Briton simply chuckled and told him that it was because Francis burns up all his calories in the hours he spends in the kitchen cooking miracles. That is not half-wrong.

* * *

"We need to talk about Greece! Things can't keep up like that!" Francis sighed, mostly tired and irritated, his blue orbs glaring at the files of countless problems and absolutely no solution to them.

"I agree. But I don't see why we should be covering their debts all the time. Besides that, there are also Spain and the Italies …"  
"About that, how's it going with Veneziano? I heard you guys broke up?"

Ludwig did not point out that Francis was changing subject. He knew it was a way for the Frenchman to take a break and frankly, this is the first work-unrelated topic that Francis approached and engaged with him since he arrived. As a rare opportunity to simply talk with the French nation, West Germany more than engaged in his answer.

"Ja. Feliciano is nice but I can't see him as more than a friend."  
"Hm … He was the one to ask you out, right? Pity. He's really nice and he might have helped cheer up that serious expression of yours." Francis spoke while stretching his arms.

His tone was light and talkative. It had lost all its bitterness and coldness since war times. There was no hatred in it, not even hidden. France was genuinely socialising with Germany without showing any past resentment.

But Francis hates Ludwig.

The German knows this as plain as daylight. And he long accepted this. That's the reason why he attempted to date other nations in hopes to move on from his French crush. With no luck. His best bet had been with Feliciano. The Italian was truly a wonderful lover and had shown an absolute trust and love in him. Something so foreign that it made Ludwig uncomfortable and scared. He often ended up picturing France through Italy … it frightened him more. Not only was he disrespecting Feliciano by thinking of someone else while kissing him, but France cannot be close to what Italy is like! France is just … France! No nation has ever been able to take up France's place in the German's heart. Feliciano was lovely. He was caring. He was trusting. He was innocent. He was the perfect lover one can wish for. But he isn't France.

And Ludwig loves Francis.

Not Feliciano.

"We didn't have matching feelings. He loved me too much. I loved him too little." Ludwig explained with a dull monotonous tone.

He got so used to this situation where he explains to France the reasons for his break up. Nations ask Germany out … and weeks later, Germany breaks up. Because no matter what security, comfort, love or trust other nations shower him in, Ludwig felt even worse dating them. He felt disgusted. Because he didn't deserve the care, the trust, the love, the comfort. France was not like that. France did not trust him. He trusted him enough as a friend but never enough as a lover. France does not trust anyone as a lover. Just like France doesn't love. France doesn't risk the comfort of a relationship. France doesn't care for more than one night.

France does not love. But he seems to be determined in making Germany find love! And that's how Ludwig finds himself being lectured each and every single time he breaks up.

* * *

Today again, he expected another lecture from France about the importance of love and how Ludwig should get out of his shell and trust people more (how Francis can self-appoint himself such rights to lecture him about love and trust, when the French nation himself didn't follow his own advice, Ludwig really does not understand! But Francis is cute when he gets excited over romance so …). However, instead, Ludwig was met with blank silence. Looking up, he noticed the stern and serious expression of Francis. The Frenchman looked troubled and about to talk but no words came out of his lips. Eventually, he seemed to change his mind and spoke different words.

"You always give me that answer. Every time I ask about your latest break-up, you tell me the exact same answer."

Ludwig blinked, surprised. Had he? He never noticed.

"I didn't realise …"

"_I know. Just like I know why you can never keep up a stable relationship."_ Francis muttered darkly, more to himself than to his German guest.

"… Francis … we don't have to talk about this …"

"No! We do!" Francis narrowed his sapphires into the icy orbs of Ludwig. The German caught his breath, feeling his heart pulse faster and praying his face was not as red as it felt.

"I told you already so many times … You need to move on with your life! You need to find someone that will make you happy! You're not happy, Ludwig! Nor is that idiot brother of yours! Honestly! When are you both going to get your act together and just … just give up?" France muttered his last words, chocking slightly on them.

Ludwig couldn't answer. He knew exactly why France was telling him this. He could very well imagine France feeling responsible for holding a grip on Germany's heart for so long. He knew exactly how kind France was being. And how cruel his words are. How strange … for a kindness to be so cruel.

"I'm not unhappy." Ludwig answered softly and honestly.

"Don't lie!" France snapped at him angrily. "I'm always lashing at you and I hate you!"

"I know."

"I don't trust you with my heart and I won't love anyone!"

"I know."

"I am difficult, picky, too proud, I complain all the time, and we argue almost every time we talk!"

"I know."

"Then why are you still coming back?! Do what Gilbert does! He stopped trying! He told me himself he was going to move on! Why can't you do the same? Go out and forget me! You know I'm only a waste of your time!"

"I'm not my brother. My brother may have given up on you but I can't."

"I'm not worth that much trouble!" Francis chuckled in a dry laugh that made Ludwig frown in sudden anger. The German grabbed the other's hand and surprised Francis by pulling him into a sudden unexpected kiss.

"You're worth a lot more than just trouble." Ludwig whispered, his face redder than he could imagine but his eyes determined. He didn't expect anything. He knew exactly what France would do and say.

France hates Germany.

* * *

…

… …

So why is France blushing?

Ludwig stared in surprise. This was the first time he ever saw Francis blush. In fact, he believed that Francis might not even be able to blush. And here he was … with his cheeks tainted pink, his eyes glaring under long dark lashes, his blonde locks framing his perfect face and his usual stubble of beard shaved off as he always does when at home.

The only reason France lets his beard grow was to appear manlier and less womanly. He hated being mistaken for a woman because he then gets hit on by stupid guys in the street. Ludwig more than once had to hold back the urge to kill these senseless men. But watching Francis beat them up himself was satisfactory enough.

Francis doesn't do love. He doesn't do dates. He doesn't do relationships. The closest he has to one would always be a one night stand or light flirtations with girls in the street. But he never allows anyone to hit into that black hole in him where his feelings are buried. Ludwig never thought he'd get to see these feelings lightening up Francis' face.

Because Francis hates him.

… Right?

* * *

"I hate you."

"I know."

"Why are you still obsessing over me?"

"I don't know."

"Is there any other word you know aside from -_I know_- and -_I don't know_-?"

"… I lo- …"

"No, you don't! I told you before! Stop it!"

Francis growled angrily as he gripped Ludwig's collar, pinning him to the floor. Ludwig never attempted to defend himself. He had no right to. As far as he is concerned, Francis had every right over him. What puzzled the German was that France didn't think that way. Francis hated when Ludwig apologised for no reason. He hated the constant guilt that made Ludwig tiptoe around him and treat him like porcelain. He hated the distant fascination and loving faithfulness that Ludwig showed by constantly rejecting other nations. Ludwig would only date after being encouraged to do so by Francis. And no matter if he dated, Ludwig always broke up.

Because Ludwig loves Francis.

* * *

Francis sighed, face-palming as he remained straddling Ludwig to the floor.

"You are impossible … I just can't win, can I?"

Ludwig frowned, confused. He had never seen Francis showing so little defence. Usually, Francis never lets his guard down, even when he's drunk.

"I don't understand …"

Francis looked down. Anger but no hate.

"You know why I stayed and obeyed your orders back then?"

Ludwig did not answer. He didn't like remembering _back then_. But he had wondered. He had wondered why Francis never once complained or disobeyed. He wondered why the Frenchman had stayed by the side of the monster Germany had been. Back then … Why did France stay?

"Because if I didn't … you would have been lost." Francis pulled himself up to his feet and helped the other up too. "Sanity is something you easily loose. I've been there. I've seen insanity. I've been insanity. And Luckily for me, someone stopped me before I was lost. And if you don't have someone to anchor you, you'll turn out into a monster. I can't let you lose yourself, Ludwig."

Francis paused for a second, frowning and glaring away at the wall, avoiding crossing eyes with the German, as he spoke his last words in an oddly soft tone.

"I can't lose you."


End file.
